Confliction
by WriteOnForever
Summary: Joar isn't a good father. That doesn't mean he doesn't love his son. Pre-series.


Same universe as _Contemplation,_ but can be read as a stand-alone.

Disclaimer: Nope.

Confliction

A robbery. A simple, in-and-out robbery.

Utterly butchered.

Joar gnashes the inside of his cheek in frustration and turns to glare at the reason for the failure. His twelve-year-old son is trundling a few feet behind, hands dug deep into his pockets. It's a pitiful sight, but disgust, not sympathy, is churned within the man. He inhales deeply through his nose to control his temper because this is not the place to be disciplining Cameron.

Off the sidewalk and inside their home, however, is another story.

"I am sick and tired of having this talk with you," Joar growls, slamming the front door shut. Cameron says nothing as he stares at the floor.

"Look at me when I am speaking!" He takes boy's chin in his hand, digging his nails into the flesh, relishing the pain that flashes through the icy blue eyes. "What part of _don't screw up_ don't you understand? You didn't even do anything tonight! You fricking _stood there_! We damn near got caught!" Fingers tighten briefly before releasing his hold. In the next instant, his fist is brought across his son's face. "You cost us half of our share! Can you do anything right?" Another punch crashes into Cameron's nose, and the crimson that dribbles down is a stark contrast to his pale skin. "How can you not follow a plan I drilled you on for a week? Tell me that!"

"It wasn't my fault."

The statement, barely spoken above a whisper, seems to echo throughout the house.

"What did you say?"

"It wasn't my fault," he repeats, voice rising only slightly, the faint semblance of determination crossing his face. "You said wait for your signal, and I did. You never gave it."

"Yes I did!"

"You didn't! I waited and you never gave it so I didn't move! I did it right this time, Dad, I did it right!"

"You failed! Just like every other time!"

"I don't always fail!" His lower lip is quivering, but he straightens his back and insists, "I'm getting better! And I would have done it right if you gave me the signal."

"I gave you the fricking signal!" Joar snarls, slapping his son even as he runs the night's events through his mind, keeps slapping him even as he realizes that he had never given the sign for Cameron to act. For only a second does his pause in his punishment before proceeding with even more force, blow after blow raining on the his son because _someone _needs to pay for the mistakes that were made.

"Whose fault was it?" he demands, delivering a kick to his son's stomach. "Whose?!"

"Mine," he gasps. He's been backed against the wall, a trapped animal resigned to its fate. "M-mine, it was mine, I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough! It's never good enough, you pathetic bastard!" Without thinking, blinded by rage, he grips the thin, fragile shoulders and slams Cameron's head against the wall. A sickening crack follows.

Instantly, Joar lets go, mouth opening in disbelief, and the child staggers forward slightly, blinking rapidly and whimpering, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, it was my fault, I'm sorry."

"It's, it's okay," he says softly, the overwhelming anger dissipating, ashes from a fire spiraling off in the silence of night. "Go to your room, alright? I'll be up in a minute."

Joar watches him climb the stairs, moving slowly, an old soul in such a small body.

"Christ," he breathes when he son is out of sight, running his fingers through his hair. "Oh _Christ_."

Since beginning Cameron's training four years ago, he has punished him repetitively. Only once before, though, had he done it when he was angry. A broken wrist was the result.

It's not right, what he does, but it was how he was raised, and there's no other way to prepare Cameron for the villain world. The weak will be destroyed without a moment's hesitation, and Joar will be damned if he has to bury his child.

Collecting himself, he enters Cameron's room. He is under the covers, hugging a pillow, a poor substitute for a stuffed animal. In the glow of the quarter moon, he seems like a ghost, moments away from disappearing.

"Hey," Joar whispers, sitting on the edge. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You know why I did that, right?"

"I was bad. I deserve it."

Joar winces at that, at how sincerely his son believes it. "Cam, what we do is very, very dangerous. I want you to be strong enough to face that. I know you're trying; and you are getting better with your powers. But making mistakes can get you killed. It's not acceptable."

"I'm sorry, Dad." He sounds near tears. "I'll do better, I promise, please don't be mad."

"I'm not mad, Cam, really, not anymore. I mean it." Placing a hand on his son's back, Joar rubs gentle circles and continues, "You're going to get better. I just know it. One of these days, you'll be even better than Crystal."

"You think?"

"Of course. Just don't tell her I said that."

He lets out a small laugh. "Okay."

Joar stays by the boy's side until his breathing becomes heavy with sleep. A brief kiss to the top of his head, he murmurs, "Good night, Cam," and retreats downstairs, planting himself in front of the television in hopes of getting his mind off of what happened.

No such luck. Again and again, he hears the thud of Cameron's skull on the hard wood and the desperate pleas for forgiveness. It wasn't even his fault this time.

He has no right to be a father; it was cruel to bring a child into this world. It was never much of his choice, though, not after _she_ showed up on his doorstep.

It was supposed to be nothing more than a drunken one-night stand, a sexual escapade to celebrate a heist. She wasn't supposed to have gotten pregnant, wasn't supposed to have tracked him down over nine years later, hatred staining her features and a small boy by her side.

They had argued back and forth over responsibility, over who had to raise him, right in front of Cameron, who shrank with every angry word. The argument wore on until Joar, feeling a pang of pity, finally instructed the child to go inside and wait. It was then that she hissed, "I don't care what you do. He is a freak and I refuse to raise him anymore. I wasted eight years of my life taking care of him, and I am positively through with it. Kill him, sell him, I don't _care_, but he is not coming home with me."

And just like that, she was gone.

Maybe he should find some consolation that she was a worse parent than he can ever be, but it only adds to his burden. He does love his son, but love is a liability in his line of work, and it must be repressed and guarded, contemplated and doled out in small doses. Cameron…Cameron doesn't understand that; all he understands is that his father is angry more often than he is happy, that affection is rare and pain isn't, and no child should have to learn that.

Wading out of the waters of self-loathing, Joar notices a shuffling sound coming from the second floor. He turns his head and sees Cameron dragging his comforter toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

"Cam?"

While his body freezes, his mouth begins to run: "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll clean it up, I'm sorry, please don't be mad!"

"What happened?" he asks, trying to maintain his calm. "Cam, just tell me what happened."

"I, I threw up. I'm sorry! Please, please don't be mad."

"Come here," he instructs. "Just come here, okay? I'm not mad, I swear. It wasn't your fault. Just come here."

When Cameron is in front of him, nervously rubbing his hands together, Joar tilts his head back gently, murmuring, "Open your eyes real wide for me, okay, Cam?"

His pupils are dilated. He has a concussion.

Joar curses softly. "Cam, sit down, okay? I'll be right back."

Search after search on Internet reinforces that Cameron needs to go to a doctor. That, of course, is the problem: everyone knows Icicle, and after the robbery tonight, there's no way he'd be able to get in and out of a hospital, hurt child or not. Even a free clinic would sic the cops—or worse, that Robin Hood wannabe—on his ass. There's only one solution, one that's tearing him apart.

Returning to the living room, he kneels to Cameron's height. "Remember that time your wrist got broken? How Cold took you to that place to get the cast?"

"Yeah."

"You need to go to one again, okay?" He hands over the Google Map screenshot he printed, the one with the highlighted red path to Star City Savior. "It's only about twenty minutes away."

"You're, you're not going with me?"

"I can't, Cameron. People will recognize me." An apology is on his lips. He swallows it back. "You need to go. You need to tell them you have a concussion. Do not tell them your last name, or my name, or where you lived. You can do that, right?"

"Right," he says, but there's no confidence.

"Good."

They stare at each other for a few moments, Cameron silently pleading for a reconsideration, but Joar won't budge, _can't_ budge, not only because of his identity but because facing those people is a task he can't bear.

"Go, Cameron."

And Cameron leaves.

Joar remains where he is long after the door clicks closed, paralyzed by fear and regret, by a burning and all-consuming anger, because his son is just a child and should not be walking the streets alone at night and anything could happen and he's a Goddam selfish bastard, knowing that if he went and admitted what had truly happened, they'd take Cameron from his care, and they _should _because he doesn't deserve to be a dad but he is and _no one _will take that away.

At some point, when night fades to morning, he drags himself to bed. He dreams of Cameron screaming and cowering in fear, begging for mercy. Even in his unconscious, he shows none, punching and kicking until the boy stops moving, stops screaming, stops breathing.

He awakes, choking on air. His son has followed him out of the dream.

"C-Cam?" he stammers, hastily sitting up. "You're back."

"Uh-ha." The hallucination proves itself real, Cameron climbing into bed beside him, head on his chest. Quivers are rippling through his body.

"You got there okay?"

"Uh-ha."

What happened?"

"The doctors asked me lots of questions, but I didn't tell them anything I wasn't supposed to, just that I lived with my dad. They gave me some medicine and told me not to do lots of activities for a while, and to rest, and to not watch TV or go on the computer for a week. I was supposed to stay longer, but…" A raspy breath later, he is crying. "I'm s-sorry, Dad, please don't send me away, I'll get better with my p-powers, I won't screw up, p-please don't send me away."

"Send you away? What are you talking about?"

"The d-doctors. I h-heard them t-talking about p-putting me in foster care, t-taking me away from you. Please, please don't let them, I'm sorry!"

"Cam, Cam, listen." He turns his son toward him and wipes the tear. "I will never let them take you from me, okay?"

It soothes him, but not by much. "You d-didn't tell them to send me away?"

"Of course not. Cam, why would you think that?"

"Because I c-can't do anything right! Y-you don't want me around 'cause I'm a screw-up—"

"Cam, that's not true. You're my son. Of course I want you."

"M-mom d-didn't. I thought you were going to get rid of me, too, like s-she did."

With a sigh, he pulls Cam into a loose hug. "Listen, Cam, I will never, ever send you away, no matter how angry I get. The doctors…they knew someone was hurting you, and they wanted that to stop. Most parents, when they hit their kids, it's because they don't love them. But with us, it's different. I do it to protect you, okay? I just want to make sure that you'll get stronger. I don't want to hurt you. I really don't."

And looking at him now, that's the truth. No matter what he's thinking in his deepest fit of rage, he doesn't want to hurt Cam, he _can't_, because this is his son and he loves him.

"Promise?" the boy whispers.

"Promise. Think about it, kid: what would Icicle be without Junior? I need you."

"I need you too, Dad."

He doesn't. He needs a real dad, a real family, with people who don't try to force him into something he's not, steal his innocence and craft him into a villain.

He doesn't know this, though, doesn't know how a normal family functions, and Joar won't shatter that illusion, not when his son is drifting to sleep in his arms.

Joar isn't a good dad. But he's trying.

His son is worth it.


End file.
